Dead Weight
by 12 Withering Roses
Summary: Tragedy strikes the Glee club as one of their own dies. Now, they must struggle to come to terms with their own very real mortality and try to move on with their lives. T for language, self-mutilation, and suicide. Total Darkfic. Puckelberry.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Well, this is my first foray into the world of Glee! Love the show to death, and I'm extremely undecided about my pairings...so they may change from story to story. Actually, truth be told, I didn't really plan on writing this just yet, but it wouldn't leave me alone. So...yeah. Here it is!

Disclaimer: I don't have TIME to try and obtain the rights to Glee. And I do own Puck...in my dreams...

Noah Puckerman sat on the cold tiled floor of McKinley High, leaning against a row of dark blue lockers and strumming chords absently on his guitar. It was just after lunch and, being on his spare, he sat alone in the deserted halls. It was a stark contrast to break in between classes, when the halls were flooded with students, so much so that the school almost needed traffic lanes to accommodate all of the bustling bodies. But now...now it was just him and his guitar and, though he'd never admit it, he enjoyed the peaceful silence of the empty halls.

Well, almost empty. He looked up just in time to see Rachel Berry rounding a corner and coming down the hallway toward him. As she passed him, Rachel gave him a nod and the slightest ghost of a smile, which he returned, before turning into the girls' bathroom across the hall from him. They didn't associate much outside of Glee, despite the fact that they had briefly dated. It wasn't all that much of a disappointment to Puck, though; she spoke too much for her own good, anyway.

Puck watched her ass with a smirk as she walked into the bathroom, before going back to strumming chords on his guitar; as much as he hated to admit it to himself, she had a pretty awesome body. It was one of the few things she had going for her.

Puck didn't have time to strum more than two chords when he was assaulted by a scream coming from the bathroom. He jumped, startled, and rose quickly to his feet, discarding his guitar on the floor beside him, and started toward the door. He was just about to push it open when he paused, hesitating, his hand still resting on the door. It was the _women's_ bathroom. He looked cautiously around himself. The halls were completely deserted. Still, he was afraid someone might walk by and see him going into the girls' bathroom and label him a pervert...or worse, a bad Jew.

"HELP!!!! SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!!" Came the same frantic scream.

_Fuck it._ Puck entered the bathroom, not caring if anyone saw. He'd be even more of a bad Jew if he didn't come to the aid of a woman in need.

Puck stopped dead when he rushed around the corner; the grotesque sight that met his eyes caught him off guard in its ghastliness.

Berry was kneeling on the floor beside a pale, motionless girl, dressed all in black, in the middle of a large pool of scarlet blood. Berry's hands were wrapped tightly around the girl's left wrist, attempting to stem the flow of blood, which kept spurting through her fingers anyway. Beside the right hand of the bleeding girl lay a shiny, sharp piece of metal; probably a razor blade. What disturbed him most about the scene was that he recognized the motionless girl on the floor; she had recently joined Glee Club.

"Noah! Help!" Rachel cried frantically, pulling him from his reverie. He nodded, rushing forward, slipping slightly in the sticky red pool. He bent down and lifted the motionless girl into his arms. She was heavier than she should be...

_It had been several days since he'd been slushied, but the humiliation and disgust was still fresh in his mind. He'd vowed after taking that slushie that he would never again slushie anyone. Nor would he stand by and watch as someone else did so. So when he'd rounded the corner and come across one of the guys slushying a goth girl, he freaked._

"_What the hell are you doing, man?" Puck asked, stepping between the girl and her tormenter and pushing him. _

"_What's it to you, Puck?" The guy pushed him back, "Since when do you care if I slushie the Queen of the Damned?"_

"_Since now." Puck growled, glaring at his opponent, "Don't let me catch you doing it again, or I swear to God I'll beat your sorry ass."_

_The other boy snorted, but turned around and walked away._

"_Thanks." The goth girl spoke up after a moment. Puck turned around to look at her, dripping wet with cherry slushie, and shrugged._

"_Whatever. Being slushied sucks." He said, trying to preserve his badassness and not come off as the heroic, chivalrous type, "Bathroom's over there; you should get yourself cleaned up."_

_The goth girl nodded, still looking at him as though he were some kind of knight in shining armour, and scurried off into the bathroom, wiping away the tears that were mixing with slushie._

_Later that day, the goth girl showed up in Glee. _

"_We have a new member joining us today," Mr. Shuester announced, "Everybody give a warm New Directions welcome to Serena Becking!"_

_Everyone said hello, and after several minutes of introductions, Mr. Shuester suggested Serena sing something so that she could demonstrate her talent to the other Glee members. Taking a shaky breath, she began belting out "Concrete Angel" by Marina McBride. By the end of it, most of the Glee members were in tears. Even Puck couldn't help but stare at her in awe._

_After that, Mr. Shuester divided everyone up in pairs in order to rehearse some choreography for Sectionals. Puck got paired with Serena. _

_They all danced around wildly, clearly having fun. At one point, all the male counterparts had to lift their female parters up in the air. Puck grabbed Serena and hoisted her up, noting how light she seemed. He couldn't help but smirk at her smile, the first time he'd seen her smile all day. It was goofy and carefree, and didn't seem to fit with her quiet, sad nature. Her eyes seemed so tired and hollow, but for a brief moment Puck could have sworn he saw a fire burning in them._

_She'd been at three practises since, and although she participated in all of the numbers, she still seemed to prefer to sit off alone in the corner when she wasn't rehearsing..._

...she was too heavy. _Dead weight_ was the first phrase to pop into his mind, but he pushed the thought away with a shake of his head, feeling the bile rise up from in his stomach.

He raced out of the bathroom and down the hall, Rachel not far behind him, feeling the sick, hot, sticky blood flowing from the wound on her wrist, resting up on Puck's shoulder. He tried to keep it elevated as he ran, and despite his best efforts it continued to bleed down his shoulder onto his back and chest. He felt the wet spot on his knee (from where he'd knelt in the bloodpuddle to scoop up the motionless Serena) become icy cold, and he heard the sick squelch of his blood-soaked rubber-soled shoes as he ran, leaving a trail of bloody foottprints behind. He didn't stop until he reached the nurse's office, Rachel hot on his heels.

Bursting through the door, Puck could tell that the nurse was about to yell at him for just barging in...until she saw the terrified look on his face, his blood-soaked clothes, and the bleeding girl in his arms. She immediately directed him to put Serena on the exam table and immediately called an ambulance. Puck just stood there, bewildered, beside a similarly bloodstained Rachel, staring at the limp form of one of their fellow Glee Club-ers.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Yeah, I know, I'm kind of morbid, but...the idea just wouldn't leave me alone, okay?!

Disclaimer: I don't have TIME to try and obtain the rights to Glee. And I do own Puck...in my dreams

* * *

Everything that came after their arrival in the nurse's office was a blur. The paramedics arrived quickly, but evidently not quickly enough. Serena was dead by the time they arrived; she was taken out of the school in a body bag.

The police came, too, and bombarded Puck with questions before taking his statement. Puck was only half-aware of his surroundings; he was in a state of absolute shock. Rachel seemed no better; by the time emergency crews had arrived, she'd broken down into hysterics, clinging to Puck and bawling into his shirt. They'd had to sedate her. He hadn't even really been aware of the fact that he'd wrapped his arms around her and held her to him tightly until she had been pulled out of his arms by the paramedics. Her fathers had been notified and arrived in time to give their consent to pumping Rachel full of sedatives. They climbed into the ambulance with her as she was carted away to the hospital for observation and, most likely, psychiatric care.

Puck's mother had also been called; after what seemed like an eternity of answering seemingly redundant questions posed by the officers, he'd been allowed to leave. His mother led him out to the car and he was halfway home before he'd even realized he'd moved.

He hadn't even realized he'd arrived at his house until his mother opened the passenger side door and pulled on his arm to gently coax him out of the car. He was suddenly all too aware of the fact that he was still covered in blood; he stank of copper, and the once warm, sticky substance was now icy on his body. His head was swimming, and he was beginning to feel nauseous. He wasn't sure exactly how he'd managed to make it to the door, whether it had been on his own or with the aid of his mother; he could feel his knees shaking uncontrollably.

The only thought in his mind as he half-walked, half-fell through the door was to wash off the blood. God, there was so much blood.

He rushed unsteadily into the bathroom, somehow managing to remember to shut the door behind him.

He practically tore off his clothes, desperate to rid himself of their presence. It was finally beginning to sink in; someone had died. Someone had died in his arms. Her life had spilled out onto his shirt, had soaked through onto his skin.

He turned the water on as hot as he possibly could without scalding himself and climbed in; he wanted to be rid of it. He wanted it to be gone. If it was gone, maybe then he could pass it all off as a really bad dream. God, how he hated blood.

Looking down at his feet, leaning on the wall below the shower head, he saw the water at his feet running down the drain begin to turn a sickly reddish colour. He immediately tore his gaze from the ground, instead closing his eyes and turning his head up toward the shower spray, letting it run onto his face.

He stayed like that for several moments, collecting himself, before he seized the coarse body scrubber hanging on the bathtub faucet, poured an excessive amount of body wash onto it, and began scrubbing his body furiously. He was desperate to be rid of it...the metallic stench, the half-dry, sticky texture, the deep scarlet hue...he scrubbed himself until he was almost raw. Finally, furiously, he threw the scrubber at the wall and sank down onto the floor of the bathtub, holding his head in his hands and fighting back the lump in his throat and the tears that were not far behind. He was a man; he wasn't ever supposed to cry. He had to be strong. His father had made that clear to him from a very early age.

He sat there for a long time, letting the hot spray from the shower wash over his body, trying desperately to forget it all.

* * *

Rachel awoke in a hospital bed. She wasn't entirely sure how she'd managed to get there; the last thing she remembered was her dads arriving at school and her crying hysterically and then a sharp pain as a needle was inserted into her arm. And then...then she woke up in the hospital.

She felt a sinking – no – more like a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach as she remembered why she'd broken down into hysterics in the first place. In her mind, she saw blood – so much blood – and the face of Glee's newest member; she watched as Serena's sad expression slipped from her features, watched as Noah scooped her up in his arms; saw the life slip from her eyes as Noah turned to run her to the nurse's office...

She could feel the tears starting again; how could this happen? They lived in Hicksville, Ohio, for God's sake! People weren't supposed to commit suicide in the bathroom of a small-town high school!

She felt a gentle squeezing of her hand as she began to cry, and turned to see her dads sitting by her bedside; Daddy was holding her hand, while Dad reached over and began to stroke her hair soothingly. She began to cry even more now, allowing loud, agonized sobs to escape as she shook violently. Her dads stood up and, one on each side of the bed, wrapped their arms around her. She held theem back tightly, as though she feared that if she let go of them, she might slip away into the vast, dark agony that threatened to swallow her whole.

* * *

Puck emerged from the shower only when he had used up all of the hot water and the shower had begun to run cold. He dried himself roughly, wrapped the towel around his waist, and turned to look in the mirror. He looked horrible; he his face was extremely pale, and his eyes...they looked older. Too old for his youthful face. And haunted.

He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the day's memories that rested on the peripheries of his mind, waiting for a moment of weakness when they would be able to slip into the forefront of his mind. He glanced at his shoulder and felt sick. The blood was gone...at least, what had been on the surface. But a large, red stain had soaked into his shoulder, one that had refused to wash away. Blood really was the hardest thing to wash away.

He felt a surge of rage rise up in him, and he felt the sudden, violent urge to smash the mirror. Instead, he turned and began punching the bathroom wall repeatedly. One...two...three...he lost count after that. But by the time he was finished, his hand was cut and bloody. He thrust it under the faucet of the sink, allowing icy water to run onto it, before grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink and quickly and expertly bandaging it.

Still wearing the towel, he emerged from the bathroom to find his mother standing in the hallway, looking alarmed.

"Sorry 'bout the hole, mom...I'll fix it later." He said, not looking at her.

"Noah..." His mother began, but she never got to finish. He finished the trek across the hall and into his room, shutting the door in her face as she tried to follow. Normally, he wasn't that disrespectful toward his mother. But today...he just needed to be alone. He didn't want to talk.

He dug in his dresser drawer for a pair of boxers, found a pair of black AC/DC ones, and slipped them on. Then he collapsed on his bed.

He spent the rest of the day and all that night staring at his bedroom ceiling. He tried in vain to get some sleep, but every time he tried, every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Serena in a pool of blood, and Berry trying to stop it, and Serena's glazed over eyes, and the body bag being rolled away on a gurney...

Several times that day and night, Puck ran to the bathroom and vomited. He'd never thought so much vomit could come from one person before now. And he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Then, he'd make his way back to bed and stare at his ceiling again, afraid to close his eyes. Needless to say, Noah Puckerman got very little sleep that night; when he would finally manage to nod off, he was awoken by nightmares of blood and school bathrooms and body bags.

* * *

AN: Wow. I just wanted to say, I wasn't expecting this to become so popular so fast. I actually wasn't expecting many people to actually read it...I was really just writing it more for my own benefit. Not that I'm totally opposed to you wonderful readers reading and commenting. Anyway, so yeah...this story definitely is the product of the darker side of my psyche...but I also think that it addresses some important issues. Not that that was really my intention when I came up with the idea. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you all for your amazing reviews...and to let you know that the whole 'two chapters in two days' thing...is a total fluke. I'm absolutely horrible with updating, mainly because I never have time to, being an IB student (long story short, IB is a bunch of advanced classes that give lots of homework). So yeah...I'll try to update as much as humanly possible, but please, don't expect miracles. Let me know what you think! Reviews are my crack!

Luvz, Cat.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: **DISCLAIMER!!!!!** This chapter deals with scenes of graphic violence, self-mutilation, and suicide. It is INTENSE. So much so that I had a hard time writing it. Thus, this chapter is not for the faint of heart. Feel free, therefore, to skip over this chapter if this is something you feel you'll have a hard time reading. It's more of a background into the character of Serena than anything else, so there's very little of the actual plot included in it. Any plot points made in this chapter I will reference and explain later. So do not feel obligated to read it for fear that you'll miss out on something.

I feel that I should explain that, besides the fact that this story is meant to examine the grieving process and bonding that occurs as a result, it is also meant to address the consequences of bullying and the suffering experienced by those with severe depression and/or bipolar/other mood disorders. So yes, it is supposed to be hard to read. Of all of the stories I've ever written, fanfiction and my own creations alike, this is the single darkest thing I have ever written. Then again, it is perhaps the most socially relevant. As a writer, I feel it is my duty to explore, to express, and to make a social commentary on all aspects of humanity and life in general, both the good and the bad. Having suffered from depression myself, having experienced the hopelessness that accompanies it, I feel that it is an important subject to broach. Thus this story has unintentionally morphed into a bit of a social commentary on high school's unsavoury aspects and, perhaps more importantly, depression.

Therefore, I reiterate: DO NOT READ THIS CHAPTER IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND SUICIDE!!!

* * *

**One Day Earlier:**

Serena opened her eyes.

_Fuck_.

It was the first word to spring to mind every morning when she awoke. Facing each new day was a living hell. Every night she would pray to God that she wouldn't wake up the next morning.

She was met each day with an empty house. She was used to it by now; both her parents worked. She rarely ever saw them. If she really wanted to, she could skip school and they'd never even know. She never did, though; while the other kids at school were cruel and hateful, at least school was a distraction. It was better than sitting alone in her room and dwelling on her lonely, pathetic existence.

This morning was no different. Serena made her way down the stairs to the empty kitchen, where she sat and ate her cereal in silence. A note stuck to the fridge with a lemon-shaped magnet told her that her parents would be working late. Again. Big shocker there.

After breakfast she made her way back upstairs to her room and dressed in her usual black attire. She endured endless torment for the fact that she always wore black. Nobody understood that it was her coping mechanism; it was her way of 'wearing her heart on her sleeve', so to speak. It was her way of expressing the dark hoplessness that was slowly swallowing her whole. It made her feel better, wearing just a bit of it on the outside; there was that much less of it inside.

As she finished touching up her makeup in her bedroom mirror, her eyes flickered to the bottle of small, round white pills on her dresser. Her parents had recently started sending her to a therapist...something about not being well-adjusted or some shit. She'd been diagnosed with severe depression and prescribed antidepressants. She'd been taking them a week, and she honestly wasn't sure why she even kept taking them. If anything, they made her feel worse. Without the pills, she felt down most of the time, with the occasional fleeting moment of something like mild content. On them, she didn't feel anything; the good or the bad. She felt like a zombie; like something less than human. She honestly couldn't decide which was worse.

Serena grabbed the bottle, popped the lid, and downed the three prescribed daily tablets. She replaced the cap and tossed the bottle onto her bed. Then she grabbed her bag, her housekey, and her lunch, and rushed out the door to her bus stop.

* * *

Serena took a deep breath as the bus doors opened, preparing herself for the hell that was the schoolbus. She shot the busdriver a half-hearted smile and walked slowly down the aisle, greeted by her usual morning pelting of wads of paper, ballpoint pens, apple cores...whatever was handy at the time. Once, she'd even had a pair of scissors thrown her way.

Drowning out the cries of 'Freak!', 'Emo!', and various other choice phrases reserved especially for her, she made her way to her usual seat at the very back of the bus. As a general rule, the last two or three rows of seats were always empty, for which Serena was thankful. It meant that she could sit through the bus ride in solitude, and not have to worry that someone might attack her from behind.

As soon as she sat down, she pulled out her generic mp3 player (Ipods are SO overrated) and her worn, wrinkled notebook. Blaring Meat Loaf's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad", she drowned out the general chaos of the bus and set to writing. She'd always loved to write, and she'd write anything, really: short stories, poetry, song lyrics. It was her way of escaping from her sorry-ass existence. When she wrote, she could be anyone but herself; she could be anywhere but here.

After a short, fifteen-minute bus ride, she arrived at school. She waited for everyone else to clear off the bus before she stood, notebook tucked safely under her arm, and exited. She stood and stared at the front doors of the school, unmoving, as the bus pulled away. She silently wondered why she even bothered with all of this. Nobody wanted her here anyway; what was the point of coming?

Shaking her head slightly, Serena strode up to the front door, pulled it open, and braved the inevitable. As she walked down the hall to her locker, she kept her head down so she didn't have to look at people she passed. She could still hear them, though; the whispers, the laughs, the names, the snide comments people made to their friends. She caught several people pointing out of the corner of her eye.

No one understood her. She was always alone, even in a room full of people. Or, in this case, a school full of people.

* * *

She reached her locker, managing to avoid making eye contact with anyone, and began pulling out books for her classes. Advanced Chemistry, Advanced Bio, Advanced English lit...all of the hard classes. It was no secret that she was a genius; even by 'smart kid' standards, she was well beyond most, if not all, of the kids at McKinley high. Last time she'd been tested, she had an IQ score of 155. It was part of what made her such an outcast; she couldn't relate to anyone at school. Which was why she'd joined Glee in the first place; to make friends. Then again, it wasn't exactly as if she was miss 'social butterfly' there, either. Mostly, she just sat in a corner, wrote, and kept to herself, except when they were rehearsing. Some of the Glee kids had made an attempt to draw her out the first few practises she went to, but apparently they'd written her off as a lost cause and stopped trying.

Her intellect, while giving her a huge edge scholastically, made her socially awkward. It was also, according to her therapist, one of the major causes of her depression; it made her cynical and critical of the world; it also allowed her to understand things mentally that she wasn't emotionally equipped to deal with. She was, for all intents and purposes, a 30 year old trapped in a 17 year old body.

Stuffing her books roughly in her bag, she began walking to class. She was always the first one there; probably because she had no one to talk to before the start of classes. On her way, she saw Puck standing in the hallway, talking to some of his football team mates. She felt a smile spread across her face. It was a peculiar feeling, she noted; it wasn't often that she smiled. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

Trying to calm the writhing feeling in the pit of her stomach, she approached him from behind. She cleared her throat loudly to let him know of her presence. He whirled around and looked at her. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Hey Puck." She began breathlessly.

"'Sup." Puck responded nonchalantly, before turning back and resuming his conversation with the guys. Serena paused, a little surprised. but she decided to try again.

"So, about Glee practise today..." She started.

The guys started snickering. Puck gave an audible sigh, excused himself from his friends, and walked a little ways down the hall, ducking into an open doorway, pulling Serena by the arm.

"What do you want?" He asked bluntly, as soon as they were in relative privacy.

"I just wanted to talk." She said simply, giving a shrug and attempting to pass it off as no big deal. "A-about Glee." She added quickly. Puck sighed.

"Look, Beck-"

"Serena" She corrected him.

"Fine. Whatever." He conceded, "Listen, you seem nice and all, really, you do. But outside of Glee, we don't associate. My rep's already damaged by the fact that I joined in the first place; if people see me talking to you outside of Glee, my badass image is screwed."

"Yeah. Right. I totally get it." Serena said in an empty tone. "You're a jock; I'm a..." She paused, "...Well, I'm me."

"Look, I'm really-"

"No, it's fine. Seriously." Serena said, pushing her way past Puck. Puck watched the girl go, feeling a pang of guilt. Noah Puckerman had made many girls cry, had been a total asshole, but rarely had he ever felt bad about it. Serena looked like she was in desperate need of a friend, and instead of being a half-decent human being, he'd kicked her while she was down. He was a disgrace of a man; and worse, a bad Jew.

Contrary to what Puck thought, Serena wasn't crying. In fact, she couldn't even bring herself to feel upset, or angry even, that she'd been turned down; not that she hadn't been expecting it. She couldn't feel anything; it was those fucking pills. They made her into an empty shell. She hated it. She hated herself.

* * *

Puck walked into Glee and noted immediately that Serena wasn't there; she was usually the first to arrive, (aside from Rachel), so the fact that she didn't arrive until after everyone else was kind of weird.

Puck watched as the small Goth entered the room and strode up to Mr. Schuester. They had a small exchange, and Puck watched Mr. Schue give Serena a smile and a nod, and Serena turn and walk away.

"Hope you feel better tomorrow!" Mr. Schue called after her.

Just inside the doorway, she stopped and turned around. She gave a small, seemingly forced smile, and waved to the other Glee kids.

"Goodbye." She said simply. The Glee kids were shocked. Was she _actually_ talking to them. A couple of them ignored her completely. Some (Rachel, Kurt, and Artie) gave small smiles of their own and waved. The rest just stared as though she'd announced to the room that she was from a different dimension. Then she turned and continued on her way.

Without knowing why, Puck got up and followed her into the hallway. Something about her was different. And very disturbing.

"Where're you going, Puck?" Mr Schue asked him as he passed.

"Bathroom." Puck replied, not even looking back at the Glee director. He walked out into the hallway, jogging to catch up to Serena.

"Listen, Serena." He began, "If you're leaving because of what I said earl-"

Serena stopped walking and turned to look at him, cutting across him.

"Look, Puck, it doesn't matter what you said earlier. I'm really not upset. Honestly. I'm leaving because I feel sick." It was a half-truth. She really wasn't upset about what he'd said. She wasn't anything. "So if you're trying to assuage your guilt, you can just lay off it. I'm a big girl; I can handle myself. And believe it or not, the world doesn't revolve around you."

With that, she left a shocked Noah Puckerman standing in the middle of the hallway.

* * *

Serena was pulled from a dreamless sleep by the annoyingly high-pitched beeping of her alarm clock. Barely aware of what she was doing, she rose from her bed and, unlike every other morning for the past several years, she made her bed. Then she set about tidying her desk, then her floor, picking up all of her dirty laundry off the floor and placing it in the hamper. After that, she dug through her closet and pulled out her favourite formal outfit, placing it in a neatly folded pile on her bed. Then she pulled a set of clean black clothes from her dresser and put them on. She took one last look around her room, ensuring that everything was neat and orderly, and walked into the upstairs hallway, closing the door behind her with a 'click' that gave her an unshakable sense of finality. She wanted to make sure everything was in order; she didn't want to leave them with a mess. It was the least she could do.

She decided ahead of time that she would skip breakfast. It wasn't like she'd be needing it, anyway. Instead, she stuck the note she'd spent a good deal of last night carefully writing onto the fridge, leaving her pills, a photograph of her as a small child, and a small box of personal items she valued greatly on the kitchen counter. Then she walked out of the house, locked the door behind her, and placed her house key inside the porch light fixture where they kept the spare. She took a deep breath and, putting one foot in front of the other, made her way unsteadily to her bus stop.

* * *

She went straight to her locker upon arriving at school and placed all of her textbooks neatly in her locker. Then she waited in the hallway just outside of the bathroom door until the final bell rang; until she was sure that there would be no one in there. Then she slowly pushed open the door and walked over toward the sinks.

She pulled a tic tac container out of her pocket and rolled up her left sleeve, exposing a heavily scarred forearm. She silently pulled the top off of the tic tac container and tipped the razor blade inside out into her hand. She stared at it silently for several long minutes, suddenly afraid, suddenly wanting more than anything for someone to walk in and talk her out of it. She shook her hand. No. She had to do this. Living like a zombie would be worse.

She took a deep breath and took hold of the razor blade between her right thumb and index finger and closed her eyes tightly. It was just one cut. That was all it would take.

She did it. Before she could stop herself, she brought the blade down and made a deep cut lengthwise down her arm. The tears came cascading now. She opened her eyes and watched the blood as it came pouring down her arm. There was so much of it. She hadn't even imagined that the human body could hold so much.

It was done. Now, it was just a matter of minutes...


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't have TIME to try and obtain the rights to Glee. And I do own Puck...in my dreams...

For three days and nights, Noah Puckerman secluded himself in his bedroom. He barely slept. He never ate. He only left for bathroom breaks. The rest of the time he just lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling with an unfocused gaze.

His mother was terrified for his sanity; he'd seen something horrible and haunting and unforgettable; and worse, he refused to talk about it. How was he supposed to deal with it if he wouldn't open up?

She tried in vain to speak to him, but as she would stand in his room and speak, she could see in his exhausted, ancient-looking eyes that she wasn't getting through to him. When she would finish speaking, becoming incredibly emotional, tears beginning to spill down her face, practically to the point of yelling, the most she'd get him to say would be, "Close the door on your way out."

He was distant, even by their usual standards; he was a teenage boy, and generally, teenage boys wanted nothing to do with their mothers. But this...this was a whole new level of distant. This was Grand Canyon distant.

Each morning she would begrudgingly leave for work, checking on her son a final time before leaving, and each evening she'd come home to find that Noah still hadn't left his room. She had absolutely no idea what to do to help him through this; really, there was nothing she _could_ do. It killed her to see her son in such pain. She felt so powerless. She felt as though she was failing him as a mother.

After his third day of self-imposed seclusion, Noah Puckerman finally ventured out of his bedroom. His eyes looked almost hollow, his face gaunt and tired. He had large black circles under his eyes; the product of three days of near-catatonic sleeplessness. Three days of reviewing in his mind the same gruesome images that had kept him up at night. His arms hung limply at his sides.

_Dead Weight_; that was the first phrase to come to Puck's mind as he vaguely registered how heavy they felt. He quickly shook his head, as though hoping the words would dislodge themselves from his mind and fall out his ears, never to assault him with their presence again. Who knew that two so seemingly simple words could disgust a person the way that they disgusted him.

He hadn't eaten in three (nearly four) days, and yet the idea of food was still repulsive. He didn't think he could stomach to eat anything. Instead, he poured himself a cup of coffee and gulped it down, not caring that it scalded his throat on the way down. He deserved any and every possible torment; it was his fault she was dead, he was the one that had unwittingly pushed Serena to the point of committing suicide...

Without missing a beat, he gulped down another mug of coffee...and another...

He was halfway through his fourth cup when the anger and guilt that had been quietly simmering in the pit of his stomach for the last three days suddenly became an explosive volcano of rage. Barely even registering what he was doing, he tossed the half-full mug in his hand at the wall as hard as he possibly could. He threw it with such force that it shattered on impact, embedding pieces of glass into the wall. He ran a hand through his mohawk and let out a deep breath, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to calm down. At this rate, he'd probably end up demolishing the house.

Once he'd calmed himself, (as much as was possible, anyway) he walked over and set to work cleaning up the broken pieces of mug, wiping up the coffee, and pulling shards out of the wall. He immediately felt guilty when he realized which mug he'd smashed; it was the one that said 'World's Best Brother', the one his sister Abigail had gotten him for Chanukah last year. He'd made a big deal of acting like it wasn't a big deal, but in all reality he had loved that mug. He'd used it nearly every morning since.

Puck tipped the broken shards from the dustpan into the trash can and, tossing the dustpan haphazardly back into the cleaning closet, he began to pace back and forth nervously across the kitchen, his mind racing uncontrollably.

He couldn't stand it anymore. Three days of quiet solitude, 72 whole hours of bitter thoughts and flashbacks to blood and nightmares of bodies had driven him to the point of insanity. He needed to get out, to leave the house, to find some means of distracting himself before he lost his mind completely.

_School. Glee._

Those were the first two words to come to mind. He glanced at the clock; there was still time. He could still make it in for third period.

* * *

Walking down the halls of McKinley High, Noah Puckerman felt as though he'd just crash-landed in an alternate universe, one where he was apparently some sort of alien life form. No one seemed to be able to look at him; they would meet his eyes briefly and look away.

They knew. Everyone knew. Word travels fast in a small town.

He hated the knowing looks he kept getting. He hated knowing damn well that all of the kids that refused to look him in the eye would go back to staring at him once he'd passed by. Like he was some goddamn freak show on display.

He immediately regretted going to school. It was a stupid idea. It was almost worse than sitting alone at home.

His classes were unusually silent. He tried to keep his attention fixed on the page of his textbook, but he could practitally _feel_ everyone's eyes on him, burning into him like lasers. When he would look around at his classmates, they would look away quickly and pretend tobe doing work. When he looked up at the teachers, he was enraged by the looks of pity written so clearly across their faces. After class, each teacher would pull him aside and ask if he was okay. Eyes on the floor, he would mutter gruffly that he was fine and rush out of class.

He didn't need anybody to feel sorry for him. He didn't want it. He hadn't wanted it when his asshole father had finally done the only good thing he'd ever done for his wife and children and skipped town, and he didn't want it now. Noah Puckerman was no victim.

It was the longest afternoon of his life.

Noah felt a wave of relief wash over him when the final bell rang. He gathered his stuff and headed straight for Glee practice. Now, more than ever, he was in need of an outlet; an outlet that Glee generally provided him, though he would never openly admit to it.

He was the first one in the room. He sat down in a chair in the far corner of the room and waited for the other Glee kids to arrive.

After several silent minutes, they finally arrived; they were all grouped together, talking quietly amongst themselves. They stopped upon catching sight of Puck, freezing in place. They all looked astonished at his presence. Puck could also see that all-too-familiar look behind their eyes.

"Hi." Puck said quietly, offering as much of a smile as he could muster. It wasn't so much a smile as an upward twitch of the corners of his mouth.

The other Glee members greeted him timidly and took their seats. Puck resented the hell out of the fact that everyone kept treating him as though he were fragile; as though he might break at any moment. He just wanted to forget it all ever happened. He just wanted everything to return to normal. He could feel the rage boiling up in him again.

Trying to avoid the gazes of his fellow Gleeks, all of which were trained squarely on him, he glanced around the unusually silent room. The silence was deafening; it was overwhelming. In his visual wanderings, he noticed that something wasn't right. Someone was missing.

"Where's Madonna?" He asked, trying to sound offhand, trying not to betray genuine worry. He was glad to have an excuse to break the silence.

He looked around the room at everyone. Apparently, it was their turn to avoid looking at him. After a long minute of silence, Kurt finally spoke.

"No one's seen her. She hasn't been back since..." He trailed off, seeming to realize that he was about to wander into indelicate territory.

"There are rumours goin' 'round town that she was sent to a psychiatric hostpital in the next county." Mercedes piped up.

The room was silent once more. Until Tina finally spoke.

"Is everything...I mean, I know it's not exactly...but...are you okay?"

It was the last straw. All afternoon he'd endured it. The looks (or not looks; most just avoided his eyes altogether)...the tones...the unspoken "what was it like to watch someone _die_?" he could see in the eyes of his classmates when he caught them looking...the fucking pity. The loathesome, heinous pity that he knew he didn't deserve. They shouldn't pity him...they should be disgusted by him. It was his fault. It was all his fault.

He couldn't even be sure how often he'd heard that question, that one, simple, innocent question throughout the course of the day. He couldn't take it anymore. He snapped.

"I'M FINE, ALRIGHT! JUST FUCKING PEACHY!" He jumped to his feet, his eyes wide, as he went on a mad tirade, "I'M SICK TO FUCKING DEATH OF ALL THE GODDAMN LOOKS AND THE FUCKING QUESTIONS! I DON'T NEED YOUR PITY! I'M FINE! SHIT HAPPENED, I DEALT WITH IT, NOW LET ME MOVE ON WITH MY LIFE!!!"

Everyone just stared at him, many of them with horrified looks on their faces. He rubbed a hand through his mohawk and let out a breath. Clearly, he hadn't convinced anyone of his mental stability. It was stupid coming here today. A mistake. He should have just stayed at home.

He turned to walk out of the room, but was stopped dead when he saw Mr. Schue standing in the doorway, Miss Pilsbury right beside him.

_Fuck_.

Puck wondered just how much Mr. Schue had heard, but judging by the look on the older man's face, it was extremely likely that he'd heard all of it or, if not, a significant portion.

_Fuck it. _Puck thought. He couldn't care less what Mr. Schuester had or hadn't heard. He just needed to get out of there.

"Puck..." Mr. Schue started, stopping Puck from leaving with a gentle but firm hand on the boy's shoulder. Puck glared at Mr. Schuester a moment, before shrugging off the hand, pushing past Mr. Schue, and continuing on his way.

"Puck!" Mr. Schuester called after him; Miss Pilsbury silenced him by placing a hand on his arm.

"Let him go, Will." She said with a pitying tone, "He's been through a lot. He's not ready to talk yet; trying to force it will only push him further away."

* * *

He hit the parking lot and began running. Leaving his truck parked in the school lot, he ran as fast as he could through the streets of Lima, pushing himself to the very limits of his physical abilities. The wind whipped bitingly at his face, his muscles started cramping up, and he could feel his chest tightening, struggling to take in air. Yet still he ran, longing to break free of his demons, longing to run even faster and even farther. To run away from this town and its perpetual torments.

Finally, breathless, almost to the point of collapsing, he reached his house. He was practically dripping with sweat as he nearly fell through the door. Despite the fact that a good run usually cleared his head, he was still fuming.

Practically tearing off his sweat-soaked, sticky clothing, he took a long, hot shower, trying to cleanse himself not only of the sweat but of his blind rage. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite affect. Every screaming hot droplet of water only seemed to intensify the ugly beast rearing up from the pit of his stomach.

Finally, he turned off the water and, drying himself as he went, he walked naked across the hall into his bedroom. It wasn't like anyone was there to see him do it; his mother was still at work, and Abigail's bus wouldn't arrive for another half hour at least.

He grabbed a fresh pair of boxers, jeans, and a tight black t-shirt from his dresser and dressed quickly and silently. Then, pulling on his runners, he ducked through the door to the garage, adjacent to the kitchen. Standing on tiptoe, he reached up onto the top shelf mounted to the wall of the garage. Feeling his way around several glass jars full of nails, screws, bolts, and other sundry tidbits one might expect to find in a garage, he located the small, thin piece of metal he was looking for: a key.

He shoved the key into the lock on a small black lock box located under the workbench and turned until he heard a soft click. He opened the box slowly, almost cautiously, and pulled out the lone bottle of Southern Comfort stored there.

He stared at the bottle silently for several long moments, turning the cool glass over in his hands. The whiskey had been his dad's; it was about the only thing the dirty bastard had left behind when he left. Puck didn't really understand why his mother had chosen not to get rid of it after all these years, but right now he didn't really care. Maybe if he downed enough of it, he could forget today altogether.

Puck unscrewed the bottle cap slowly; part of him willed him to just put the bottle down and walk away. That small part was overpowered by his need to feel better...to just...forget.

As he removed the cap, he was assaulted by the strong stench of alcohol, and he was instantly transported back in time several years to a night shortly after his twelfth birthday.

* * *

"_Dad...dad stop! Please!" Noah yelled frantically, his arms overtop of his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the blows. _

_His father, the resident Lima Loser, had come home drunk...again...and had made a beeline for his mother. In order to spare her his drunken father's wrath, Noah had blocked his father's path to his terrified mother, who was cowering in a corner with little Abigail, and called him a filthy drunken slob._

_Thus, Noah came to find himself as the target of his father's newly directed rage. Though he pleaded desperately with his father following the first several blows, he knew that it was in vain. The belt just kept coming and coming, blows raining down on his bare back...stinging his skin with each blow, every once in a while breaking skin and drawing blood._

_Noah tried desperately to keep his composure, but soon the pain became to much to bear and he began to cry in fear and agony. This only enraged his father more. _

"_You whiny, snivelling, pathetic sack of shit!" His father raged, accenuating each word with a blow from the belt. "You're a man, for God's sake! MEN DON'T CRY! So stop being a whiny, pathetic little bitch and start acting like one!"_

_He continued to beat Noah for nearly ten minutes, while the boy tried to gather his composure so as not to further upset his father. Finally, blissfully, he alcohol level in his father's system reached the point where it overwhelmed him, and he passed out in the middle of the living room floor. Noah's mother immediately rushed to her son's aid, stepping over her unconscious husband. Carefully, trying to avoid touching any of the cuts and abrasions that had resulted from Noah's beating, she helped her son to his feet, kissed him on the forehead, and led him to the bathroom so that she could tend to his injuries._

_

* * *

  
_

Noah shook his head, trying to dislodge the unbidden memory. He'd always sworn to himself that he would never become a drunken asshole like his father; in fact, the day his father had left had been perhaps one of the happiest of Noah's life. And yet here he was now, contemplating downing this bottle of whiskey in a desperate attempt to escape the unbearable pain he currently felt. No matter how bad he'd thought his routine childhood beatings were, they were child's play in comparison with the emotional agony he currently felt.

The question was, how far was he willing to go to escape it?

AN: Well, I've been working on this for a while, sorry it took so long...schoolwork and whatnot was a major delaying factor. And, cruel as I am, and lover that I am of cliffhangers, this is where I shall leave off with this chapter. I'm hoping the next chapter will be a little shorter and, consequently, take less time to get written and posted. Unfortunately, though, I'm currently in the process of filling out my University applications, so that might take away from my writing time.

Finally, I just want to say that I tried to make this as realistic as possible; I hope I succeeded with that. Reviews are my crack!

Cat.


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